Riddle flies off my shoulder and soars among the elder trees and I walk to the nearest trunk. The familiar layers of bark from the redwood smooth over the base like cooled, vertical ripples of lava and instantly comfort me. The elders have never failed me before, and their knowledge goes beyond the time of stars.
As I press my hands against the elder, Riddle lands on one of the branches and watches me with large, curious eyes.
“I’m going to talk to them now. Think you can be quiet?”
He chirps and nods.
“Good boy.”
After a moment, I close my eyes and push all my concentration to the tree at hand. The tree’s life force is slow to respond. These elders have never been awakened by a dryad. But an elder always knows when we call.
Back at the Enclave, our forest seems to know everything about a person before even connecting with them. As if our feet touching the earth give them a connection to us. As if they know the person above their root system and can sense their emotional state. Their roots sense things even before being approached.
My link to the trees awakens them in a wave of power. A slow, lumbering presence, as large as the sky and as deep as an ocean, buzzes in my head. They chatter about the dryad in their midst with slow, meaningful emotion. They, or rather The All, as they call themselves, are almost offended by how long it took for me to speak to them.
I’m not used to their unwieldy connection, and they’re unaccustomed to the quickness of my mind. I slow my thoughts, while they change frequency and pitch.
Trees do not speak in words. They don’t even speak in emotions. They speak in wisdom and events. Ages pass, and they listen. Their medium of communicating is story, for they are the original storytellers of the world.
And they know I’m in trouble. They know I need their help. So they set aside the confusion, the strange newness of my mind, and do what they can to muster up a way to solve my problem. And my problem is the necromancer.
How do I prevent him from overtaking the count, I think. Slowly.
Trees have no eyes, but they have another type of sight. Some would call it metaphysical, but it’s real. It’s like music, yet the energy swaying back and forth prevents me from getting a clear idea of what I’m being shown.
The light connection of my mind joins the cacophony of other minds. Once my mind organizes and clears the clutter, I hear singing. This forest is unified. Protected. The redwoods know they are coveted and cherished.
A story begins that tells of a “walker” who often comes here: The count. To them, he is not an undead vampire, but just a different type of energy. Unique. They feel cherished by him and through him. When he comes, they try to infuse power into him, but his energy and theirs aren’t compatible. Yet, they remain steadfast. Ready to help.
And I need them now.
Will you help me? I ask the elder. Will you help me for him, for Jean-Claude?
The slow rise of an answer bubbles in my mind. Yes.
I feel him then. Jean-Claude. I feel his energy as I felt him within me during our connection. His calling card is unmistakable. Out of thousands of energy “signatures,” only this one and one other are familiar to me. Yet, I can’t place the other, but it has the distinctive feel of an elf, his power swirling.
Jean-Claude’s energy is frantic, weak, muffled. If I hadn’t shared his mind for half a day, I wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from the other sentient non-tree beings. Jean-Claude’s essence is like watching a dancing shadow imposed on a glass window. But he’s there, and the necromancer has him. It’s the only explanation.
Which means I have to step it up.
The further I sink into the tree’s story, the more information I receive. Redwoods are strong, yet pliant. Soft dirt and sensitive roots help them determine everything that goes on around them, helps them communicate to the world.
Pinpricks on my skin climb my arm, and then I realize I can feel the footsteps of the necromancer. He’s in the forest. The trees relay his ill intentions towards me. And he’s close.
A sharp spike hits my palm. “Ouch.” I pull back, breaking the contact.
That was not a friendly push. It was probing. Desperate.
Riddle chirps at me from the branch as my mind slowly adjusts back to normal. The effort leaves me groggy, slow.
In the distance, footsteps rustle leaves. At first it sounds as though someone is trying to disguise their creeping footfalls as wind. As though they try and mask themselves from me. But, they’re doing a poor job of it. The wind playing in the dirt sounds nothing like the scuffling of shoes.
The sound happens again. It’s as though someone is trying to warn me they’re coming. As though a vampire were using every trick in the book to prevent a necromancer from getting the drop on me.
Then, silence.
I breathe into the wind, using all my senses to determine where they are.
I press my finger against my lips to try to indicate to Riddle not to make a sound. His eyes grow wide and he nods.
And then it comes for me.
TWENTY-ONE♀♥♂♂♂♂EVERLY
A blur with the eyes of the count comes for me.
